


Mac Dismantles an Atomic Bomb

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Caretaking, Codependency, Depression, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorders, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post The Gang Gets Analyzed, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Sleeping Together, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "Once Mac has accomplished his goal, Dennis will magically run out of size pills and tell Mac how wonderful he looks, how he doesn’t need the pills to make him look different because he’s already perfect. It’ll cause a fight, sure, but it’s more than worth it to make fat Mac to disappear."





	1. Part I

It starts with the Mexican ephedra.

Mac wants to get big. Mac wants to ‘cultivate mass’ and live life as a fat fucking asshole with zero self-control or restraint. He wants to go from a tiny twink to a muscle bound freak, and, honestly, it’s fucking revolting. Really, it’s enough to push Dennis super close to the edge because he can’t even look in Mac’s direction without getting queasy anymore.

He buys the weight loss shit off the dark web. It arrives a few days later, and then Dennis is shoving the pills at Mac one by one. He tells Mac they’ll make him a strong, muscular monster, and that’s more than good enough for someone as stupid and irritating as Mac. Mac calls them ‘size pills,’ which is fitting, so Dennis makes sure to refer to them by that name too.

Dennis doesn’t expect to see results so soon, but, after just a week, Mac whines about dropping seven pounds. That’s a pound per day. Mac complains that he doesn’t have an appetite, that food no longer looks appealing, and, for that, Dennis is immensely grateful. He lived through months of watching Mac stuff his face with trash bag chimichangas and two whole pizzas at a time. He was right there when Mac’s clothes stopped fitting properly.

Now, Mac’s almost back down to his pre-avatar weight. He has just thirteen pounds to go. Dennis knows because he’s been tracking the progress for almost three months now. Once Mac has accomplished his impromptu goal, Dennis will magically run out of size pills and tell Mac how wonderful he looks, how he doesn’t need the pills to make him look different because he’s already perfect. It’ll cause a fight, sure, but it’s more than worth it to make fat Mac to disappear.

Mac wheezed while he sat perfectly still on the couch. Mac coughed when he drank the tiniest amount of water. Mac ate an entire box of donuts for breakfast. He smelled fucking gross, like bacon grease and chocolate. He never made an attempt to hide the weight gain from anyone, owning it and wearing it proudly, which is probably what made Dennis the sickest overall.

Dennis fishes out a single pill from the Ziploc bag he hides between two blankets in his closet. He hands it to Mac, who swishes it down with whiskey without hesitation. Dennis almost smiles. Almost. But, even in the midst of controlling his best friend, there’s this emptiness creeping up his spine, threatening to swallow him whole and spit him out all over Philadelphia. Manipulation usually helps heal his God Hole; too bad it barely works anymore.

Nothing is enough.

“Uh, Den?”

Dennis looks up from the morning newspaper, eyes heavy behind their shared reading glasses. “What?”

Mac rubs the back of his neck. He does that when he’s nervous or skeptical or trying to figure something out. “You okay?”

Dennis almost frowns, but he catches himself. He doesn’t feel like talking about it, this thing eating him up inside. “I’m good, dude. Finish your breakfast.”

“Nah. I’m full. Want the rest?”

There’s only a single half slice of toast and some scrambled eggs on the plate, but it’s so much more than enough to make Dennis’ stomach swirl and spin. He gulps. “No.” He folds the newspaper, shoves the glasses in his button up pocket, and dumps what’s left into the garbage. He puts the dishes in the sink, biting his lower lip when a wave of dizziness followed by aggressive nausea smacks into him full force.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dude?” Mac asks, voice wavering just a little bit. “You don’t look so –”

“I’m fine, Mac,” Dennis snaps harshly before bounding into his bedroom.

He slams and then locks the door, heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. Dennis puts a shaking hand over his heart, counting to 20 before losing track and breathing rapidly. He doesn’t... He doesn’t know why this keeps happening. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry or empty or sad all the time. He doesn’t know why he can’t eat. He doesn’t know why the earth rotates around the sun or why the tides rise and sweep over tanned ocean sand.

This keeps happening. His spells of anger are often punctuated by days off work or silently drinking in the back office, huddled in on himself in the corner, knees tucked in and face hidden. This isn’t him. He’s a God. Mental breakdowns and depression and panic attacks and self-harm should be things of the past. He’s evolved. He’s so much more evolved and adjusted than the rest of the gang. He’s The Looks and The Brains and Their Leader.

Dennis wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wavering unsteadily on his feet. Sweat beads around his forehead, and, fucking motherfucker, he should go redo his makeup before heading to the bar. But the bathroom just seems too far away. Dennis takes two trembling strides and plops face down on his mattress, legs dangling off the edge.

Three seconds later, tears pool around his head on the comforter. Snot dribbles out of his nose. He hiccups and grips at his shirt and feels himself separate from this reality. His body lies haphazardly on the bed while Dennis floats above it, watching it break and crumble and fall to pieces. Dennis stares at the body for so long and so hard he barely registers the sound of a lock being picked, the sound of Mac’s bare feet gliding across the floor.

He doesn’t feel Mac’s arms wraps around him.

The world makes less and less sense when he’s like this.

Dennis is out of his body. Out of control.

Spinning. Spiraling. He doesn’t want to make it.

Mac counts quietly, softly, in Dennis’ ear.

He gets to 414 before Dennis snaps into his body.

New record. Great.

 

* * *

 

Morning trickles away absently.

Dennis doesn’t go to work. Neither does Mac.

He listens as Mac explains that Dennis is sick. Frank or Dee or Charlie must not buy it because Mac has to defend it over and over again. Dennis doesn’t care though. They can suck his dick. He wants to go to Paddy’s, even if it is just to laugh with friends and brown out, but it’s so much work. Everything is a lot of work these days. Sometimes, he wishes for peace and absolution, the kind he knows he can only find when he’s dying or dead.

Mac is right though. Dennis is sick. It’s different kind of ‘sick,’ though. The kind that rots his mind first. It attacks his limbs and muscles next, paralyzing him in the sea of nothingness he created for himself. It’s vast and lonely and never ending, and Dennis is always torn between wanting to know the ending or being terrified that he’ll screw something up. Even in the face of proverbial death, he worries about impressions and appearance.

When this story ends, he’ll be old and wrinkly, and no one will ever love him.

Christ, why is he thinking like this?

Dennis squishes his cheek harder into the pillow. He pinches his forearms beneath the blankets.

Time melts and divides and coats his bedroom in a January glaze.

Dennis doesn’t have energy to protest when Mac – not fat Mac but just Mac – clicks on the light.

“You need to eat, Den,” Mac says. Dennis tries to scowl. “I know you’re not feeling great, but getting some food into you will help.”

He almost gags. He doesn’t want to eat. He can’t eat.

Dennis eyes the little pudge Mac’s still got hidden beneath a now fitting t-shirt. He then cradles his own puffy, fat ass stomach with his hands. Gross. Why’s he so gross?

Mac sits on the other half of Dennis’ bed. Dennis tries to roll over, but Mac keeps him grounded and in place, a hand pressed to his blanketed shoulder. Dennis spies the bowl of yogurt and blueberries in Mac’s lap. It’s only about halfway full. Mac knows how Dennis gets when it comes to portion sizes, which makes this only slightly better. Mac takes a bite first, just like he always does. He puts the spoon to Dennis’ lips.

But Dennis dry heaves the second that happens. He sits up, immediately covering his mouth and nose with his hands. The smell. The fucking smell. Is that yogurt rancid?

Mac would never try to feed him bad yogurt.

“Dude,” Mac sighs, exasperated and obviously on edge.

It makes Dennis promptly burst into tears.

Why why why why why why why why why why why why why –

“Shhh... Shh, Den. Calm down... It’s okay. It’s okay...”

He hears this. He hears it. He hears Mac.

Mac is trying so hard to keep him grounded, but Dennis is already long gone.

 

* * *

 

The cold tile of the bathroom floor soothes his swimmy stomach and aching head.

Dennis curls in a ball, absentmindedly lighting the flesh of his forearms on fire. He has easy enough access; he isn’t wearing anything other than boxers and socks. He rests his head on a wadded up towel, eyes drooping and heart hollow. The burns don’t hurt. The slashes on his thighs hurt even less. It’s not like it matters anyway. This isn’t really his body.

Anxiety wiggles through his muscles, nagging at the base of his skull. He flicks the lighter over and over again, watching the flame echo and bounce off the walls. He’s watching the skin on his right middle and ring fingers shrivel when there’s a quick, quiet knock, followed by the door opening. Huh. Dennis thought he locked it. Guess not.

“Jesus Christ,” he hears. But Jesus won’t help him now. No one will. No one can. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Dennis.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Stop it,” Mac says, yanking the lighter from his grasp. “I got you some tomato soup and NyQuil. You’re gonna eat dinner, and then you’re gonna sleep, okay?”

Dennis nods, but he knows he doesn’t mean it.

Mac bandages Dennis’ burned fingers and wraps his left forearm in gauze, but not before putting antibiotic ointment on it. He washes off Dennis’ mangled thighs. They’ve mostly stopped bleeding, but Dennis listens to a couple Band-Aids being ripped open and applied somewhere. The crinkling sound hurts his head. So does the fabric of the long sleeved shirt Mac put on him. So does the light overhead and the honking of cars throughout the city and the constant fucking clinking of their dishwasher. Dennis covers his ears.

“Sorry, dude,” Mac whispers. “Not tryin’ to ‘stimulate you here.”

Dennis feels himself being lifted off the floor and into strong, muscular arms. Dennis feels himself lying gently on the mattress. Dennis feels himself being wrapped in a heavy blanket that almost immediately makes his heart rate slow. Dennis feels himself drifting off into darkness, but not before he feels the echo of warm lips on his forehead.

 

* * *

 

Dennis tries to wake up, but he can’t.

He’s a warm bundle of logs roasting in a fire. Even lifting his head would prove to be taxing at this point. So he keeps his eyes closed. He’s conscious, but not really. He’s in that state of in between, where sometimes he’s painfully aware of what he’s done and who he is and where sometimes he can’t bring himself to remember.

“Dennis, buddy,” he hears.

But he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t.

“G’way...” he mumbles, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth because, holy fuck, is he thirsty.

He can handle that later. It’s not emergent or important.

“Can you at least drink this?” Dennis cracks his eyes open. Blue Gatorade and Mac. “For me?”

Dennis shakes his head. “Tired...”

“That’s because you have no food or water or anything in you, Den.”

He tries to shrug, but he doesn’t or maybe can’t.

Dennis whines and grumbles as Mac hoists him into a sitting position. The winter air slams into his now exposed chest, and Mac tucks the blanket in tightly right above Dennis’ nips. The long sleeved shirt does nothing to help him here. He wiggles and scoots and eventually is fully under the blankets once again, shivering and breathing heavily and trying to stay calm.

“I’ll hold it for you,” he says. “I’ll do all the work. Just drink.”

He feels the bottle pressed against his lips.

Dennis opens up and takes tiny sips.

 

* * *

 

 

It starts with the Mexican ephedra.

Mac’s desire to grow big and cultivate mass messes with the version of himself Dennis always see, always expects. As Mac gains weight, Dennis feels like he’s losing grip on reality, like he’s bloated and packing on pounds too. As Mac excitedly shows off his ‘accomplishment’ for this ‘avatar’ thing, Dennis feels his chest caving in. It’s so fucking hard to breathe.

Dennis gives Mac size pills to make him smaller because Mac’s disgusting and must be stopped.

Dennis gives Mac size pills to force him to go back to the way things were before, when Dennis didn’t feel the belly bulge pressed against his skin at night and when Dennis didn’t feel robbed of everything around him just because of Mac’s weight gain.

Dennis gives Mac size pills because no one else will. No one else is good enough to help Mac.

It comes to a head once Mac figures out the ‘size pills’ are what’s causing him to lose weight.

“You can’t just do that to people, Dennis!” Mac screams.

Dennis wants nothing more than to shrivel up in bed and hide for weeks on end. Mac’s been yelling at him ever since whole ‘who does the dishes at the therapist’s office’ fiasco a few hours ago. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen Mac this angry at him before, and Dennis is a bastard man. He knows he is. He’s told that repeatedly and shows it all the fucking time.

“I’m not some play thing for you. I’m not a toy. I’m a human being. You can’t just feed me pills and tell me they’ll make me more bigger because you want me to lost weight.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. He stares at the wall in their living room instead.

“C’mon, dude. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Dennis can’t even bring himself to formulate words.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on with you, Den? I swear you’re getting worse.”

He frowns. Starts fiddling with the bandages on his fingers.

“I... I’m not really sure I can handle this anymore,” Mac says honestly while Dennis huddles in on himself even more. “We’ve been roommates for over twenty years, dude. You barely talk to me when you’re not pissed off and yelling or needing something from me. I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried. No matter what you say or think. I’ve tried being there for you. I’ve tried getting you help. Dude, I have to fucking feed you half the time ‘cuz you’re starving yourself the other half.”

Dennis finds it in himself to nod. “Okay,” he whispers, voice broken and crumbling.

“Okay?” Mac asks. “Seriously? All I get is an ‘okay?’”

“Dunno what you want from me...”

“Jesus Christ, Den! Are you fucking serious right now?” Mac yells. “I want you to help yourself! I want you to eat and sleep like a normal fucking person. I want you to know when you’ve had enough. I want you to know when you need time for yourself. You need to know these things, dude. I can’t keep doing everything for you all the time.”

Dennis gives another tiny nod. “O-Okay.”

Mac exhales loudly, getting up from the couch to pace between the kitchen and living room. Dennis hides his face in his knees.

“I think... I think I’m gonna go for a little bit...” Mac says. Dennis almost throws up. “I’ll probably stay at Charlie’s or Dee’s for a few days.”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Dennis’s skin crawls, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to pass out. No. No no no no no no no no no no.

This can’t be happening.

He swears... He swears he’ll do better.

Mac can’t leave. He can’t leave.

The world – Dennis’ world – ceases to exist without Mac.

“No...” Dennis manages say. “P-Please don’t...”

“Dennis...”

Tears stream down Dennis’ flushed cheeks. He doesn’t bother wiping them away. What’s the point? Nothing has a point anymore.

Mac sits back down on the couch, hands folded in front of him. Dennis somehow brings himself to make actual eye contact for the first time in hours. He knows eye contact helps. Will help persuade Mac into staying and giving Dennis what Dennis wants. If that’s what’s even happening right now. Dennis just really doesn’t want Mac to go.

“You can’t live like this anymore, man,” Mac says softly. “I want to help, but I can’t do it on my own. This isn’t a one-way street. This is your life.”

“P-Please don’t go...” Dennis whimpers. “Please. Please, Mac...”

Mac’s arms are around him in a second. Dennis hides his face in Mac’s neck. Listens to Mac’s heartbeat. Listens to Mac breathe.

Mac is so alive beneath his skin. He’s nothing like Dennis. No, Dennis is dead inside and has no pulse and can barely breathe on his good days. Mac is so much. So much more than Dennis even deserves.

“Promise me you’ll get help. Pinky swear right now.”

Dennis shakily holds out his pinky, face still hidden. “S-Swear. Jus’... J-Jus’ please don’t leave me... Don’t l-leave... Don’t leave...”

He flinches a little bit when Mac kisses his hair. Huh.

“I’m not going anywhere, Den. Not if you get some help. If you try, I’ll stay.”

Dennis honestly doubts he’ll do anything. Mac’ll stay no matter what. He won’t leave. He can’t leave.

But Mac doesn’t need to hear that.

“I’ll try...” he whispers.

It’s a lie. He knows it is.

But this lie is really worth it because Mac is staying, and that’s what matters most.


	2. Part II

Mac comes home from Charlie’s after a night filled with Beer Charades and downing shot after shot of whiskey to find a Dennis-shaped blob curled up on the living room floor, buried beneath the weighted blanket. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his awesome beard before pocketing his keys and kneeling down. He isn’t in the mood to deal with this shit, at least not really. He’s pretty drunk, and his stomach keeps swirling, and he wants to puke and then go to bed.

But this isn’t the first time he’s found Dennis like this, and he doubts it’ll be the last. But, still, the dude can’t just keep laying there. He’s in the middle of everything, making him a big inconvenience because it means that Mac has to actually walk around him, and he shouldn’t sleep on the hardwood floor, especially in January. January can suck his dick.

Mac clears his throat before dis-burritoing his best friend. Dennis doesn’t bother getting the blanket back; he just balls himself up. He’s wearing nothing but Mac’s black hoodie and blue plaid boxers, a trail of gym clothes following him from his room to here. His running shorts and a single grey sock lie near Dennis’ head. One worn out Nike is on the couch, and the other somehow made it into the kitchen. Dennis’ hair is matted to his forehead.

“Hi,” Mac says simply.

He comes home to some form of a depressed Dennis a couple times each week, so, honestly, this isn’t a surprise. He can’t help but feel guilty. He’s Dennis’ protector, the guardian who makes sure he at least eats and sleeps. But he doesn’t like to do this all the fucking time. He wants to walk into their apartment without worries of seeing Dennis lying on the hardwood floor or slashing up his thighs with a dulled razor or burning his arms or breaking mirrors.

For once, he wants to be normal.

Okay, he’ll never be totally normal, but, hey, being completely normal sucks ass anyway.

What he means is that he’d like to have conversations with Dennis. They don’t talk much anymore when Mac isn’t force feeding him or rocking him to sleep between the insomnia, panic attacks, and nightmares. Dennis usually yells loudly or manipulates or takes advantage of him. Mac isn’t stupid. He’s The Brains after all. He knows how Dennis is. He’s known the dude for over twenty years. He isn’t getting more better, and he isn’t doing shit to change it.

Dennis hides his face in Mac’s hoodie sleeve.

“Hey, doesn’t that pot roast smell great?” Mac asks, hoisting Dennis into a sitting position. Dennis leans against the couch, eyes red and drooping. “Why don’t you go shower? We can eat dinner once you’re done.”

“N’thanks. Tired. Not hungry.”

“Too fucking bad, Den. C’mon. Get up,” he says as he hauls Dennis to his feet. He wobbles, and Mac puts a careful hand on his waist to steady him. “You’re sweaty as shit, and you stink. Go get that gym reek off of you, man. Plus, I worked hard on that pot roast, so you’re gonna fucking eat it, dude.”

Dennis shakes his head, and, holy fuck, he’s trembling so hard. It’s during moments like these where Mac wants nothing more than to help Dennis in any way possible. Right now, he’ll do everything to make sure he showers and eats and is comfortable for the rest of the night. He’ll watch movies and rub Icy Hot on Dennis’ back since it’s usually sore after he works out. Fuck, he’ll run to the Wawa to grab orange soda and vanilla ice cream to make floats at three AM if that’s what it takes. Dennis used to love orange soda and vanilla ice cream.

(He used to love a lot of things.)

After the whole size pill thing, Mac isn’t sure how to feel. Dennis said he would try to help himself or at least get help from someone else, but it’s been a couple days, and he hasn’t even went into work. He hasn’t set up a doctor’s appointment or mentioned shit. Mac is constantly torn between staying and leaving these days, and, seriously, this version of Dennis isn’t making things any better.

Mac should be furious. He has every right to be pissed off. Dennis, his best friend and roommate and fucking blood brother, drugged him for weeks to make him lose weight when that was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do. He was just tacking on mass and becoming an ultra muscular dude, for Christ’s sake. But Dennis is weird. He stopped sleeping in the same bed as Mac once Mac put on mass. He stopped hanging out with him, leaving Mac to hit Charlie up when he wanted to smoke or drink or shoot pool or play darts or kick his ass at video games or scam the zoo or go to the indoor waterpark uptown.

So Mac ignore it. He ignores this weird, pumpy feeling in his heart and stomach, the feeling that tells him this is a lost cause, that Dennis is broken and can’t be fixed. He doesn’t want to leave. He really doesn’t. Dee’s apartment sucks. Charlie and Frank’s place is absolutely disgusting. Mac doesn’t have money to live on his own. But Dennis is obviously depressed and not coping and clearly barely hanging on by a fucking thread, so Mac has to be here.

Mac has to save him. Mac has to stop this.

“’m sorry ‘bout the pills...” Dennis mumbles as Mac cranks the shower almost as hot as it’ll go, just how Dennis likes it.

“Don’t worry about –”

Mac stops talking once he pulls the hoodie over Dennis’ head. He inhales sharply once he sees the purplish black contusions on his right side and hip, the slashes on his thighs, the moon-shaped bruises from pinching soft skin way too hard, the burns shining grossly in the bathroom light, the tons of self-inflected scars from their whole teenage years and adulthood.

“What happened there?” Mac asks, pointing to the dark, heavy bruising on Dennis’ side.

Dennis shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything, like it isn’t snapping Mac right in half. “Fell down the stairs...”

“What?!” Mac shouts.

Dennis winces, covering his ears briefly before pulling them away. “Don’t freak out. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“Jesus Christ, dude. You could’ve broken something. Are you concussed? Does your head hurt? What about your leg? How're your ribs? You are standing kinda funny. What about –”

Mac’s brain is spinning wildly until Dennis puts his cold hands on Mac’s cheeks. Tells him to breathe deeply, endlessly. Calms him down without even trying.

(How the fuck does he always do that?)

“I’m fine, baby boy. I’m fine.”

This isn’t fine. This so totally isn’t fucking ‘fine,’ but Mac doesn’t feel like arguing.

He doesn’t think Dennis wants to fight either.

Mac practically shoves Dennis in the shower with his super strength. Dennis doesn’t say a word.

“You’re eating the second you dry off, dipshit.”

“Sure thing, asshole.”

 

* * *

 

Dennis frowns as soon as Mac places the bowl of pot roast in front of him.

“It’s got vegetables in there, Den. Real vegetables. I went all out for you, man.”

Dennis gives Mac a tiny nod before picking up the spoon, acting like it weighs a ton. His hand shakes, even though the weighted blanket is draped over his lap, and he’s wrapped up in Mac’s warmest, softest hooded sweatshirt. He swirls the broth around, dissecting the carrots and beef silently.

“Five bites,” Mac says.

“Only five?”

Mac nods. “For now. We can take a break after five. Then we’ll do five more bites.”

“I’m gonna be sick...” Dennis says out of fucking nowhere, pushing the bowl away so hard it almost falls off the table. He covers his mouth with both hands.

“Dude,” Mac whispers, scooting his chair over until his and Dennis’ knees touch. He brings the food back into Dennis’ sight. “You have to eat. You have to.”

“You...” Dennis coughs, and Mac rubs his back. “Y-You already made me eat y-yesterday... ‘member? I had... that weird turkey sandwich...”

“You had, like, half a turkey sandwich, Den, and it wasn’t weird. It was probably the most normal turkey sandwich ever. Plus, that was barely food. It doesn’t count.”

Dennis scoffs, hands still hiding his mouth. “Well it should.”

“You fell down the stairs today, and you went to the gym anyway. Make this pot roast your bitch, dude.”

It takes a few more minutes of coaxing, but Mac almost smiles when Dennis lowers his hands, putting his left one in his lap and the right one around the spoon. Mac eats his dinner much slower than normal so Dennis doesn’t feel rushed. Mac grins slightly once he sees Dennis take the first bite, followed quickly by a second and third and fourth.

“You’re doing so good, Den. One more bite, and then you’ve earned your break.”

Dennis takes several gulps of blue Gatorade (because electrolytes). Sweat beads around his forehead. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

Shit.

“Oookay,” Mac says. “We can stop for now, alright? I do not wanna clean up your barf again tonight.”

Mac rubs Dennis’ should for a while, frowning as Dennis leans back in his chair and palms his stomach. Jesus Christ. Four small bites of pot roast, and he’s about to puke? They really really really need to work on this. Mac’s gotta get Dennis’ stomach more used to food.

“Queasy...” Dennis murmurs, burping and wincing at the same time.

“That bad, dude?”

Dennis nods. “Gonna go hang out in the bathroom...”

He tries to stand up, but he topples over, and Mac catches him like the badass he is. He guides Dennis to his bathroom since it’s closer. They both sit against the tub, Dennis closest to the toilet just in case he has to barf after all. Mac bites his lower lip once he sees their knees touching. He misses this. He misses being touchy with Dennis. Of course, this isn’t, like, anything, but it’s something, which, in Mac’s book, is better than nothing.

“Wanna smoke?” Mac asks. He brushes Dennis’ damp curls from his clammy forehead. “I got an eighth of kush. The good shit too. It could help your pukey-ness.”

Dennis nods frantically, curling around himself once Mac leaves the bathroom to dig around in his dresser. He doesn’t bother rolling a joint, even though he’s great at that like he is at everything, because Dennis needs relief now. He grabs his Helix pipe, the one he bought for convenience. It’s super fucking quick and easy to load and a lot smaller than a bong. It really was a solid buy; Dennis only complained a tiny bit when Mac borrowed his debit card to get it.

He comes back to his bathroom, and Dennis barely lifts his head from where it’s hiding in his knees. Mac holds the Helix pipe up to Dennis’ soft lips and lights it. Dennis inhales the smoke without looking. It’s funny how Dennis blindly trusts Mac, but he doesn’t dare trust anyone else. Mac thinks that’s a good thing.

Dennis coughs harshly. Mac gently rubs his chest.

They take turns smoking, and Mac does literally all the work for Dennis besides taking in the smoke himself. Eventually, Mac’s eyes are lead, and he’s struggling to keep them open, even though he knows it’s only, like, eight or some shit. His head is cool and calm. He can only hope Dennis feels better too. But the dude is zoned out, eyes closed and head resting in Mac’s lap.

Mac and Dennis used to smoke a lot of weed in high school and when Dennis was at Penn. Now that they’re older, they usually drink and occasionally huff glue or gasoline or turpentine with Charlie. Mac kinda forgot how soothing, how floaty and free, weed makes him feel. It’s like he’s a small seventeen year old twink all over again.

Their senior year, he and Dennis got super baked before gym. He and Mac skipped class and sat under the bleachers, passing joint after joint back and forth. They held hands and bobbed along to the music playing loudly from Dennis’ Walkman. It was sunny and bright and warm, and Mac’s sure he’s never felt anything like that before.

(Dennis is more wonderful than Mac can put into words, but there’s no reason to make his ego even more bigger than it already is, so Mac keeps his mouth shut.)

Mac glances down at Dennis, who is fast asleep on Mac’s lap. Dennis’ hood is up, blocking out the light shining on them. He’s drooling on Mac’s pants.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes at the same time. Dennis is such a weak ass.

Mac lights up the Helix and tokes until the bathroom is clouded with smoke.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck... What happened?” Dennis grumbles, rubbing his eyes as he exits Mac’s bedroom. He’s wrapped in the comforter they shared last night, wearing it like a cape. The dark bruises beneath his eyes are less visible today. Dennis plops down on the couch beside Mac, immediately laying his head in Mac’s lap like he just belong there. “Why was I in your bed?”

Mac cards his fingers through Dennis’ hair. “You, like, greened out last night, bro.”

“Greened out?”

“You smoked too much pot, Den.”

“Pssh. Whatever. No such thing.”

Mac chuckles. “You don’t gotta be embarrassed. I passed out, like, right after you.”

Dennis hums. “So you carried me to bed?”

“Yeah, dude. You have a super shitty immune system. You would’ve gotten sick if I let you sleep on the floor twice in one day.”

“Aww. Little Mac’s lookin’ out for me.”

Little Mac?

What? Is that what he is now?

Is that who he is now?

“But what about my mass?” Mac asks. “Oh yeah. That’s right. My roommate’s a dick and got rid of all of it.”

“You still have thirteen pounds left, so I didn’t ‘take’ it all,” Dennis says.

Mac shakes his head, but he keeps threading his fingers through Dennis’ curls anyway.

It’d be so easy to rip his ass a new one, to be super angry and maybe even punch the wall to show just how serious he is. He wants Dennis to know he’s serious about him not fucking with his body anymore. But Dennis is so... different right now. It’s weird. He’s weird. Dennis isn’t yelling or complaining. Sure, he’s obviously still Dennis because clones aren’t real, but this level of calmness isn’t practically unheard of during their everyday lives.

Dennis seems... soft.

(Oh fuck. What does that mean?)

“If you’re gonna call me anything, dude, call me ‘Big Mac.’”

Dennis scoffs. “Like the hamburger?”

“Oh shit. Is that already taken? How about Mass Mac?”

His best friend, roommate, blood brother sits up, leaning in so close that Mac smells the cinnamon on Dennis’ breath. “How about just Mac?”

Mac’s heart is at his feet. His eyes widen.

Dennis presses his warm, soft, pink lips against Mac’s. It doesn’t last long, but Mac doesn’t – can’t – pull away. Not from this.

“Whoa,” Mac whispers. “Shit, Den.”

“Shh... Let me take care of you, baby boy.”

“Dennis...”

But it’s too late. He’s already goo in Dennis’ arms.

 

* * *

 

Dennis grins crookedly before lying on top of Mac, out of breath and panting. They’re naked, and Mac has literally never felt better in his entire life. When Dennis is inside him, he can’t contain the joy that ruptures through his core. It’s electric and beautiful, and, shit, Mac never ever wants Dennis to go anywhere without him ever again.

Mac traces his fingers up and down Dennis’ spine. His touches linger, long and slow and soft. Dennis keeps kissing his neck, and it’s fucking driving him up the Goddamn wall in the best way possible, and, okay, how is it possible for him to already have another boner?

“You gettin’ hard for me again, baby?” Dennis whispers.

Mac nods. “My turn.”

“Your turn for what?”

“I’m gonna fuck you on the kitchen table.”

“Right now?” Dennis says softly, smiling brightly.

Mac nods. “Right fucking now.”

Dennis trembles beneath Mac’s fingertips.

It’s so much more better than Mac ever expected.

 

* * *

 

This isn’t the first time Mac’s woken up wrapped around Dennis, his boner pressed against Dennis’ ass.

In fact, this is, like, one of thousands. Mac and Charlie used to sleep in the same bed as kids all the time, but they’re not kids, and Charlie definitely isn’t Dennis. No, Charlie was kinda grubby, and Mac would wake up grease on his cheeks and peanut butter in his hair. But Dennis is clean and smells like weed and earth and spices and buries himself in the sheets and comforter. Charlie used to just use toilet paper or paper towels as blankets.

Dennis is still asleep.

Still asleep. He’s asleep.

And, yeah, Mac remembers Dennis’ tongue in his mouth. Remembers sliding off Dennis’ sweatpants easily. Remembers slow, passionate, burning, electrifying kisses and hums of approval. Mac shudders and turns that part of his brain off.

No.

No no no no.

But yes.

(He’s so fucking going to Hell.)

Dennis is shirtless, and Mac takes this time to count the freckles on his shoulder blades, relaxing and settling against pillows that smell just like Dennis.

But Dennis is Dennis, and Mac is Mac, and could that even work?

(Maybe the size pills weren’t so bad; after all, they’re bringing Mac and Dennis closer together.)

Mac nearly craps a brick when he feels Dennis’ socked feet graze his bare legs as he rolls over, burying his face in Mac’s chest. Dennis lets himself be held completely, wordlessly succumbing to Mac placing an arm around his warm, solid waist. Dennis keeps snoring.

And, in the early January glaze, Mac kisses Dennis’ messy curls and closes his eyes.


End file.
